Don't Call Him a Cowboy
by Aniphine
Summary: You weren't a mercenary like I'd known them. And that hat of yours was deceiving, because you were no cowboy. You made the best entrance I've seen into little ol' Goodsprings and for me to try and peg a name on you was a hard task. But with a stolen package and a past suited for a drifter, I can't say I'm not impressed by you, David Kane. -Sunny Smiles' view on the Courier.-


_David Kane_, you told me with a quick nod of your head. Sounded like a stage name to me, but who am I to judge with a name like mine?

_Sunshine Smiles_... I'm sure it was cute when I was little.

You weren't a cowboy. Oh, I had seen plenty of them before. Sure, you had the hat and you walked with that signature look to you, but you weren't no Brahmen-busting wrangler. But you weren't a blockhead mercenary either. Mercenary, yes, but you didn't fit the bill for the kind I had seen around here before.

Didn't stop me from keeping an eye on you though.

Because I knew your kind. You think you're the badass of the town and everyone should back off. You think you're the slickest thing to hit the production line, but I'm not buying. I've heard enough cowgirl jokes to piss off a saint with all their patience and I'm not putting up with it from someone with a hat like yours.

All and all though, you seemed nicer. I ended up running into you at the Prospector Saloon but I kept my berth. I spoke for a second with Trudy, who was manning the bar as usual, but didn't really stay anything to you. I nodded to you as we made eye contact, politely - anything else just wouldn't be southern - but I kept it at that. Calling Cheyenne close to me, I moved around the pool table and moved to the back room.

You seemed the curious kind - always asking questions, always wanted to do something. At first I thought it was you being nosy, but after a while I decided it was one of those weird tourist quirks.

I knew a few things about you - word travels fast when a man is shot and buried up in our sorry little graveyard; but it travels even faster when the man isn't dead. The whole incident took me by surprise just as much as everyone else. I didn't know what was going to happen up on that distant hill, once darkness fell the few nights before.

Cheyenne was curled up next to my cot like she always was - a constant reassurance that nothing like that would happen to me - and we both dozed to the sound of the desert. We didn't know. We didn't even guess.

I didn't even hear that gunshot in the middle of the night. Cheyenne must of, because she jumped up to her feet, bumping my cot in the process and jarring me back to reality. But I was dazed and unaware, simply cocking my head to glare at her in bleary confusion.

She didn't bark like I knew she would if there was close danger; more just stood at attention with her ears tilted forward. She didn't falter from that stance, even as I rested my head back on the pillow.

"What is it, girl?" I mumbled, and her ears suddenly dropped, looking over to me at the sound of my voice. She made brief eye contact, as if to say _I acknowledge you_, before she turned to her state.

Feeling the comforting folds of sleep drawing me back in, my head rested back to look at the ceiling. "Come one, girl; if there's nothing there, lay back down."

She hesitated, not moving, and for a moment I thought she would disobey me. I swallowed to make my voice firmer to speak, but before I did, her ears dropped and she glanced down. Slowly she lowered herself to the ground and rested her head on her paws. Sleep claimed me quickly.

It was the screaming that woke me again. My vision was filled with blinding sunlight this time as I sat straight up in my bed. Cheyenne was up before me; her barks were sharp and honed. I paused, ears straining to wonder if it was a nightmare, but then a distant and panicked voice echoed off the dirt again.

_"Hurry, damn it!" _

Profanities stretched on after it and I was already jumping from my bed, flinging off my blankets, and Cheyenne was barking as if hell had abruptly let loose. I shot her a quick reprimand and she silenced, instead jumping to my side and keeping keen at her post.

Sunlight blinded me as I made it out to the hills, following the voices. My vision was still blurry, but the urgency to everyone's voices and Cheyenne, at my side, barking at the commotion worked to jolt me awake faster than a Radcoach in my boot.

Most the town was stumbling out of their houses like I was, bleary eyed like we were all drunker than skunks, and a few other folks were halfway up that hill. The sky sure was bright that day and my eyes were refusing to work right, so I was nearly ran over by Victor when he came tearing down from the graveyard like a Fire Gecko once it's been popped by a Cowboy Repeater. Off to the Doc's place he headed before I could wet my mouth to say a thing.

Not a lot of questions were answered, since most of us were warded off from Doc's place and everyone else was plain clueless. But word got out once you - the new town celebrity, David Kane - were up and walking. And it spread like wildfire. Your friend though, who was stuck in the same hole as you, wasn't doing too well though. He was still down for bed rest up at Doc's place and not much of anyone heard about him.

But, God bless the Doc for all his magic medicine, you were out socializing with every Tom, Dick, and Harry by the time the Geckos came around for another raid. Hell, I don't think we'd even buried your hole yet.

I minded my business like I was supposed to and kept to myself. Damn me if I didn't see you at every turn, but I minded my own. I couldn't stop to blow some caps, hit a drink, kill some geckos or go for a stretch of the legs without catching you at the corner of my eye. I thought walking up to the graveyard might be the one place where I wouldn't find you, but slap a pig's ass and call it bacon, there you were again.

The curious kind is what you were, that's for sure. And it raised my curiosity. You weren't a cowboy and you didn't seem like the mercenaries I knew.

That night at the Prospector Saloon, the curiosity grew to its steaming point when I caught you out of the corner of my eye – yet again. With the lamp getting dim and everyone either gone to bed or meandering around the bar, I ordered a tall drink from Trudy and decided to ask just what kind of person you were.

Your answer didn't seem the one I expected, but as you elaborated, it seemed to make sense. When you say _mercenary_, I think of a _buff, gruff, chauvinist with a gun_. When you list your job description, I think drifter with a spending problem.

A little more chatting, another sip of my drink and I realized I didn't note how the light fell over your face before. The showing stubble and the quirky look to your lips didn't match what I thought of a mercenary at all.

Another sip, some more chatting and I find myself intrigued by the story you tell. You and another guy - Michael apparently - were shot up on that old hill near the water tower, in that little graveyard of ours. A group jumped you and shot you, burying you in a shallow grave and leaving you. The rest I could gather from what little I'd seen myself.

I felt a little daring; hearing it from your mouth instead of some old ladies around a quilting circle. Not that we had any, but the image stuck. Nothing really interesting rolled through Goodsprings, and normally I'd like it that way. But that whiskey swirling in the glass was swirling in my veins now and I was starting to think less of you as the useless drifter and more like the Ranger with the Big Iron on His Hip.

The rumors floating like lost tumbleweeds around the town made me figure your skirmish was Powder Gangers. And I didn't think much of it after then, since those junkies had been getting a bit more testy every day. But the story you told seemed more interesting. A flashy costume and a few henchmen jumped you in the night, stealing this package of your friend's? That's one I never heard before.

Another sip, another play, another bet and suddenly a jackpot. I smiled and sipped again, finding myself pressing more into your story. I noticed how the coat fit your shoulders, thick but gently. I noticed the careful look in your eyes as you examined your cards. I noticed the thin layer of dust covering your skin and I felt daring enough to go all in.

You won that one.

I asked about the dust; curious by your victory, but not surprised.

You went on to tell about the package that wasn't found in that grave you dug in all day. So _that's_ why you were there.

My eyes were captivated by the way the dust shielded you, enhancing the curve of your cheeks and the line of your brow. I made an offer that seemed dizzily daring. I could already feel the anxiety building in my stomach before I ever uttered the words.

I bit my bottom lip, considering, but I know my prized chance was going to flee any moment. I took in a breath and looked up where my eyes were distantly set on the table, willing myself to speak.

"Why don't you come back to my place?" I smiled, keeping my voice friendly even as I felt my chest tighten at what I was proposing. Tipping my head to the side, I let my cards fall to the table. "We can get you cleaned up."

My teeth were on my bottom lip again, nervously chewing on the skin as I watched your eyes for a response - feeling a rejection or some sign that I should've shut my trap five seconds earlier.

There was only a subtle change in your eyes, something of a smirk without your lips ever moving and I knew your answer is yes. But it's less of an agreement and more of a challenge when you said it. You dropped caps on the table for Trudy, downed your drink - as I look to see mine surprisingly empty - and my hand was suddenly in yours. I stood, tugging you out and away from the bar, and led you away as a warm feeling settled in my stomach.

I felt almost an animalistic desire claw up my throat and as soon as the door was shut in my crummy little room, I was on you.

I found you're a little more mercenary than I'd expected, and I also found that I don't mind. And I'm glad you're not a cowboy. I've had a cowboy or two and if I couldn't tell the difference before, I sure as hell could now. Even with that wound in your chest that the Stimpaks hadn't fixed yet, you were as energetic as a colt born in spring.

But like I said, I'd had a cowboy or two, so I half expected you to be gone by morning. But you weren't. You were off exploring more of the town, and I was off checking the water with Cheyenne with the early sun to clear my head. That was that.

Things developed though, and there you were again changing my perspective of you. Your snooping led you to our resident weasel, Rango, and somehow you dawned the 'hero' hat along with your 'not cowboy' and 'not mercenary' one. The Powder Gangers rolled in for the weasel and you stayed – even defending our town. Well, defending Ringo; the stupid junkie. And you won; you gave it a lick and a promise, but you won.

The shootout was barely over and it was just about time for a beer with our horses. But then the smell of smoke met my nostrils. My eyes scanned the horizon for a moment, wondering if the house had finally ignited off the harsh sunlight like my skin was tempted to.

My eyes must have landed on Doc's house just as yours did. My thoughts went to the Doc, to the medical supplies, to the water, to all the things that sat precious on that hill. Yours went to the friend that was still inside, but I didn't think of that.

You went tearing up the mountain, but I didn't follow. I had my own to think of, so I didn't follow this strange man and his voice that held a fear that was scaring even me.

By the time I had settled the townspeople and checked to assure the gangers were really down, I scrambled up that mountain. I burst through the door and saw you with a drink. And a gun. And the most broken expression I've ever witnessed. Your face was blank, nonplussed, and empty. But all of them together seemed to send off a different signal.

Shattered.

My eyes were captivated by that look, but I drug them to the thing lying on the floor at your feet.

Or, forgive my disrespect, _who_ was lying on the floor at your feet. I almost didn't recognize the other stranger. That man you had come in with. I couldn't even remember the poor man's name, and only faintly remembered through that late night's haze what you folks were to each other.

But the look on your face told me enough.

I left you two in privacy, feeling like I had stumbled into something I shouldn't have. I glanced to see you had put the fire out and in a strange act for me, I didn't press past that. I didn't make sure it wasn't anywhere else; I didn't ask if anything was damaged or if anyone else was in there. I just left.

I felt like I had interrupted a private and sacred moment and felt urged to leave immediately. Cheyenne growled into the darkness of the room and to the strong scent of blood and smoke, but you didn't respond. Didn't move.

I hushed her, a hand coming to rest on her head in a quiet reassurance, and she quieted. Even if you didn't turn or acknowledge my presence, even if you never told me so, I knew I had to leave. I closed the door behind me, walked down the hill and to anyone who pressed or moved to run up the hill. I assured them there wasn't any fire to be running after, and that it'd be best to stay out.

I went out on my hunting trips and checked the water, knocking out the Geckos and tending to the Brahmin, but my eyes couldn't help but wander up the Doc's house whenever it was in sight.

I didn't even know you had left until I caught movement up on that hill with the old graveyard. After what happened before, I couldn't help but be suspicious and made my way up, Cheyenne on close guard at my heel and my rifle tight in my hands. I caught sight of you far in the distance just as I peeked over the edge of the hill; too far away for you to notice me.

You slaved over that dirt with Trudy's crappy shovel, that she kept behind her place, in your hands. The bundle next to you, the same size as a person, made me draw conclusions on the hole you were digging six feet deep. Not the same one that had been dug much shallower only days before. No, this was far away from that one.

Again, I felt myself intruding on something private and not my business, so I turned with Cheyenne and made my way down the hill all the same.

The dirt in this country is solid as a rock. Hellacious to dig in at all, which is probably why that group only dug you and your friend a half assed grave the first time. Well, maybe it had to do with disrespect and all that, but it probably factored in too.

It wasn't until late that night, hours and hours after I saw you up on that hill that you stumbled into the Prospector Saloon. I offered you a drink, spoke my apologies. You only mumbled something of a thank you and stared down into your drink; coddled in your hands as you leaned over the bar. I never was good with this kind of thing, and I was pretty sure I was just as bad now.

I rested my hand on your shoulder. I tried to be comforting, and I was pretty sure it was the wrong thing, but it was all I could think of anymore. You didn't seem to react badly. You didn't even tense as I half expected you to. You almost relaxed against my hand. I saw your shoulders slump and you leaned farther over the bar. Your head bowed farther down over your drink, and again I felt like there was something I should be doing. I felt sympathy stretch from my heart out to you and my teeth ground together in a grimace.

Yeah, didn't know you well. Three days tops. But I know you're not a cowboy, you're not a mercenary as I've known them, you're an okay bodyguard, a good shot and you loved that man that was killed up in that hill. And I knew I was hurting for you.

You were on your own that night, even with all the sympathy I could muster. I couldn't say anything and even if I could get my voice going, there was no hope for my words. I didn't stay long, and left you to your drink; hoping it could comfort you more than me.

The night faded like a fog and I was still lying awake in my cot with Cheyenne at my side. Looking at the ceiling, I wasn't sure what I should be doing. You were probably still in that bar, and I felt like my mother would have whipped me for leaving you in such a sorry state. Even if you were all but a stranger to me, anyone could see plain as day that you were more lost in your own head that I'd be at sea. Even with all the oh-be-joyful Trudy could serve up in a couple of glasses.

I was about to drag myself out of that lonesome cot and go back to the bar; to say something, even if I didn't know what it was. Maybe play another hand and hope an idea came to me like it did the other night.

Cheyenne growled at my side before I could come to my feet. I looked to the door suspiciously just before a careful knock resounded through. Nothing dangerous ever knocked so I was up and had it open before Cheyenne could have a thing to say about it.

There you were.

You stood there, like a man wounded, for a long while and I didn't know what to say. I was a farmer's daughter and more of a man than most the men around these parts, but I was as quiet as a shy school girl right then and there. You looked at me, setting your eyes directly on mine, but somehow the look was hollow.

I could see the shattered gaze had been washed away by a fifth of whiskey, but there was still pain lingering underneath the shadows lying on your face. Your eyes were clearer than before, more lucid, but somehow still lost.

You asked a question with your eyes that I almost couldn't understand.

My hand went out gently, taking yours, which was still dirty from that crummy shovel and calloused like I'd known it the night before. It was as if I'd answered whatever question you'd silently asked, because you leaned in suddenly and took my lips in yours, like you were searching for something. This wasn't animalistic or forceful like before, or even businesslike or cold. It seemed guarded, but desperate.

Your lips were tender like you needed tenderness, and I could feel a few of those shattered pieces just beneath the surface.

This time you would be gone when morning came. Whatever tenderness I had offered hadn't done much, because there was a hardness of revenge that took over your entire form. Or maybe it had worked, and served to give you a foundation to build some hate off of. I couldn't be sure.

Your eyes were a lot colder than they had been when you first stumbled into Trudy's bar. And worlds away from the warm and hunger you showed the night we left that bar together. They were harsher, more set, more focused on an object I couldn't see.

I didn't complain as you left. I didn't beg you to stay or get angry, or any of the fuddled emotions that I couldn't even sort out in my own head. I wasn't going to be that kind of girl, and even as you turned around, buttoning your pants, and told me you'd come back, I knew you wouldn't.

This would be the last time I saw you, and I figured I could swallow whatever it was I was feeling for the sake of a good goodbye that I'd be proud of later and wouldn't add more resentment to your eyes.

You were loaded, packed, and off from the town. I didn't watch you go, or want any goodbye kiss or anything. With my good girl at my side, we headed off to the water to take out the Geckos that were gathering again.

You weren't a mercenary like I'd known them, and that hat of yours was deceiving, because you were no cowboy. I wasn't sure what to peg you, but it wasn't as a mistake. You and your stage name, me and mine. Me with my best friend at my side and you with yours firmly in the ground. Both with a gun and a purpose, we stalked away without anything more than a card game, a night, a gunfight and a few stolen moments I shouldn't have intruded in.

You had come and gone before the geckos. 

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Fallout universe or any of the characters included; only my writing style and the non-canon scenes. I also don't know David Kane, which belongs to ShaneComplex**

**A/N: This is part of an art trade with ShaneComplex. He did this lovely drawing of my character, Lone, from Fallout, and in exchange, I was to write this story about his character. Life, school and a book deal lead to it being put off and put off until I managed to inch it along to this point. Now you have it. **

**So this was written in first person from Sunshine's perspective, but to David in second person. I considered writing from her dog's, Cheyenne's, perspective (since we share the same name) but then I decided it probably be best to stick to human perspectives and not get confusing. Also, my writing style is a little bit different, but this was sort of an experiment.**

**Hope you liked it!**


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